


Medallion

by FishLeather



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Car Accidents, Crack, Gen, Hospitals, New York City, Summer, UnBritpicked, magical taxi summoning powers gone wrong, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27946823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishLeather/pseuds/FishLeather
Summary: Everyone knows that a certain detective can always get cabs where others can't. Unfortunately, being a cab magnet is a double-edged sword."John.""Yes?""You value honesty," Sherlock stated, as if it was going to save him.
Kudos: 6





	Medallion

The aquarium thief was much younger and much faster than expected. That narrowed down the possible motives by removing nostalgia from the picture. The criminal cut across a busy street, nearly disappearing between the erratic traffic. Sherlock had gotten halfway across the same street when the thief reached the other side, and stopped. The man turned around and smiled like a joke had gone over Sherlock's head. Sherlock slowed down just the slightest bit, wondering if the man intended to fight him in broad daylight in front of countless people. Criminals, especially youth, weren't known for being the brightest, but surely the number of witnesses--

Too fast to appreciate in real time, he was slammed onto the hood of a yellow taxi. The driver hit the breaks far too late, the car's motion providing enough momentum to throw Sherlock into a harder second impact with the road surface where a different taxi had left a void. Both impacts produced a crunching sound.

Sherlock Holmes was staring up at the vertigo-inducing grid of dark skyscrapers against a heat-warped sky, from where he was sprawled out on the boiling hot pavement. The cab driver kept honking, as if he was going to get up and walk away.

\----

When he checked his mobile on the way out of the clinic, John had two texts from an unknown number. The first text was just two emojis: a running man, and a car. The second text was a photo, but it wouldn't load. He dismissed it as probably a wrong number.

On twitter, a similar photo from a different angle was removed for violating the site's standards before it could gain any traction. The version that did garner a few retweets was so heavily censored that the victim wasn't identifiable.

\----

New York Presbyterian Hospital was an ugly, squat thing in lower Manhattan. The experience of visiting the ER was only marginally better than that of involuntarily becoming a piece of street art.

Sherlock's phone had barely survived the accident, and could only be used once a layer of clear tape was applied to the shattered screen. The contact list was expansive, but staff were unsure who to call, as numbers were listed by initials rather than names. Going off the ID in his wallet, a member of staff found two contacts listed under MH. Disappointingly, the first went to the voicemail of one Molly Hooper, the other to a government office in London that was closed for the night. Further attempts to contact family could wait until after the patient's surgery, but the lack of insurance information was worrying.

\----

It took some practice, but finally Sherlock was steady enough on crutches to get all the way out of the hospital without stopping. Stopping meant someone might try to talk to him, or send him back to bed.

Oddly, the minute he was out of the hospital, he became invisible. No one noticed him, not even barefoot in a hospital gown, holding his wallet in one hand for lack of pockets. The crutches and cast at least made the case that he hadn't escaped an insane asylum, but the outfit was less than flattering.

Over the course of two hours spent at various outdoor vendors, he managed to haggle convincingly enough to buy an entire outfit (or, at least something to keep him legally decent, and with pockets) for just twelve dollars. The 'outfit' was track pants with one leg clipped off so the cast would fit, a single bright pink flip flop, and a sleeveless shirt. He was going to get the sun burn to end all sun burns, but he had to save enough to get on an international flight with just cash.

He was slightly surprised at how easy it was to get through airport security, but being the same shade of white as his boarding pass (before the burn) probably helped. In the freezing air of JFK international airport, his sunburn patiently developed. By the time his gate was called, he left some skin on the back of the chair.

Flying intercontinental in coach with a fresh sunburn and an unbendable leg was a brand new experience, but not one he would recommend.

\----

John stared openly at the state of his flatmate from the top of the stairs.

Not one inch of his skin was un-sunburnt, his nose was nearly purple with it. He didn't have the luggage he left with. He had a leg cast that extended above the knee, and crutches that to John's trained eye were obviously far too short.

As John came down the stairs, more details became apparent.

Bruises littered both of Sherlock's arms, but the extent was hard to tell through the deep sunburn. When Sherlock moved slightly to one side, the armscye of the shirt revealed much darker bruises on his unburnt midsection, and some bandages.

Together, they managed to get up the stairs to the flat.

It was telling that Sherlock shuffled to the couch and sat down instead of immediately changing out of the ridiculous outfit.

"John."

"Yes?"

"You value honesty," Sherlock stated, as if it was going to save him.

John tried not to imagine every possible scenario of what had happened. "It should be important to you, too." He waited a beat. "What happened in New York?"

"I was hit by a cab and billed forty thousand dollars for it."

"You paid forty thousand--"

"I was billed for it, I didn't pay it." Sherlock fished a torn-open hospital bracelet out of his pocket, and tossed it on the coffee table.

John was speechless.

Sherlock shifted a bit, uncomfortably, trying to figure out how to put into words something he'd learned recently. He looked down at his cast, then back at John. "I'm sorry about your crutch," he said flatly. "Crutches are not..."

"Not a joke," John finished for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Crack isn't supposed to make sense. This idea wouldn't leave me alone for the past month.


End file.
